“I think you understood it very well, Mr. Ruiz. It’s simple and it’s straightforward. It’s called the truth. It’s not the answer a lawyer might look for in court, but then, a smart lawyer would never put you on the stand and allow the question to be asked since he already knows, as I did, that any other answer would be a lie and would likely be exposed as one.”
“So you’re testing me to see if I’ll tell you a lie?”
“You have to excuse him,” says Harry. “He’s a lawyer.”
“And you’re telling us that you didn’t kill Madelyn Chapman and you don’t know who did. Is that right?”
Ruiz looks at me for a second, wondering, I’m sure, what part of the question is a trick. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. You don’t believe me, I guess I’m just going to have to go look for another—”
“Relax, Sergeant. I believe you.”
CHAPTER SIX
At first glance the grounds of Isotenics, Inc., aka Software City, look like an Ivy League academy. However, once inside the gate, a closer inspection reveals something more akin to a military base.
The outer-perimeter fence, constructed of ornamental iron for architectural effect, is at least eight feet high and decorated at the top of each picket with a fleur-de-lis, forked and needle sharp like the point of a pike. Anyone trying to climb this would require either the strength and agility of an Olympic gymnast or a ladder on each side. One slip and you would end up like a hot dog on a skewer.
The front gate, with a guardhouse in the center, is manned by uniformed security backed up by surveillance cameras on poles set on high ground as I drive in.
Beyond the gate, the blacktop lane winds through the hills and climbs in elevation toward the top of a ridge in the distance. On the way I pass clustered villages of redbrick buildings, commercial offices designed to approximate colonial New England with names posted on signs for various divisions of the company. The buildings, some with ivy climbing their walls, are erected in a rectangle around a green common, the irrigated and well-manicured lawn contrasting sharply with the dry grass of the California hillside. In places carefully engineered hedgerows covered with oleander and ficus have been used to conceal inner security fences, electrified chain link topped by tight coils of razor wire. None of this is unusual for a company whose principal client is the United States Defense Department. Marked private patrol units cruise the roads.
The rolling hills, more than a thousand acres of brown grass parched tinder dry by the arid climate of Southern California, are punctuated by occasional groves of stately eucalyptus trees.
As I climb, and look back down from on high, the buildings, their peaked roofs and gabled ends glistening in the morning sunlight, spread out below me, then disappear behind a ridge as I round a curve. It is plain to see how the place acquired the appellation campus among the press, its various divisions separated as they are like colleges at Oxford. According to the materials I have read, Madelyn Chapman designed the setting so that corporate divisions could each compete against the other in that elevated entrepreneurial quest, the pursuit of perfection.
Halfway to the top the hill, I am stopped at a second security kiosk where the pass I was given at the front gate is collected and exchanged for another. My name is checked off a clipboard and I am handed a paper parking permit. Here the surface of the road suddenly transforms from asphalt to cobblestone arranged in an intricate herringbone design. The road is lined with jacaranda trees, their petals in late bloom covering the ground like a sky-blue shadow under the spreading branches. I take all of this to be a sign that I am entering the commercial equivalent of nirvana, a place set apart, above the mercantile gnashing of teeth and struggle for survival in the world below.
As the Jeep’s tight suspension rattles over the surface of the road, I look to my left and see the endless blue haze of the Pacific as it comes into view a few miles to the west.
I hook the paper parking pass to my rearview mirror and press the accelerator up the hill. Two minutes later the Jeep crests the top. I swing into the parking area marked Visitors and nose into the first open space. The parking lot, which takes up a good part of the eastern edge of the knoll, is nearly full. In front of me is a large Roman Revival two-story brick building with expansive stairs leading to a broad portico out in front. The roof over this is supported by five large white Doric columns complete with scrollwork and massive masonry pedestals. Rising above the roof of the building like the top layer on a wedding cake is a gleaming white dome supported by smaller columns and sporting round porthole windows halfway up its curving arc from the base. I am guessing that this architectural statement is just a little smaller than the gold dome on the state capitol. If you had a helicopter with enough lift, you could pick the building up and plop it down at the University of Virginia and the entire structure would feel at home, right down to the simulated aged brick with its tumbled edges and manufactured chipped corners.
I gather my briefcase and head toward the terrace of stairs leading to the portico and the main entrance. Climbing the stairs, I enter through the main entrance. Inside, the cavernous rotunda echoes with the click of high heels and shuffling shoe leather on the marble floors, the hum of voices punctuated by the occasional cough and sneeze, all bouncing off of hard surfaces and resonating in the lofty dome.
Careful attention has been paid to every detail so that the interior imitates to perfection the traditional architecture of government. This replication of the architecture of power no doubt has a subtle effect on the customers who visit it, mostly military brass and civilian bureaucrats. Operating as it would at the subconscious level, the design is likely to take advantage of the subservient instincts of those in the employ of the political beast to curtsy and bow in such surroundings.
I am left to wonder whether Chapman may have followed through on this theme upstairs, and if the conference rooms where sales are consummated are designed in the form of congressional hearing rooms, the proverbial political woodsheds for the Pentagon.
A circular counter directly under the dome serves as a public information desk peopled by a small army of scurrying attendants answering phones and pushing paper.
I take my turn in a line behind two other people. When I get to the counter I introduce myself: “Paul Madriani. Here to see Victor Havlitz.”
With the mention of the name I get the distinct impression of being in one of those television commercials where every conversation dies and ears are suddenly tuned in my direction.
“If you’ll wait just a moment …” The receptionist doesn’t ask for a business card or whether I have an appointment. No doubt she has been primed to expect me by a phone call from the kiosk down the road.
I have the sensation of being a bug under glass: scores of eyes glancing in my direction. The benefit of having your face and name plastered all over the papers and the six o’clock news as the defender of the man charged with murdering the corporation’s founder and chief executive officer.
As the receptionist picks up the receiver and starts to dial, I look around and a dozen sets of eyes suddenly return to what they were doing before I arrived. The drone of voices slowly picks up again until I can no longer hear what is being said on the phone. Whatever it is, it’s brief. She hangs up.
“Someone will be down to get you momentarily. If you’ll just wait over there …” She points off to my left toward a broad corridor that leads to the west wing of the building. I wander in that direction, briefcase in hand, feeling the gaze of eyes boring holes in my back.
Twice this week news crews have shown up out on the street in front of our office, our turn in the tumbrel with the media spitting questions and pushing lenses in our faces.
Ruiz’s impending trial is now topic one among those who tune in to the courts for their entertainment. There is talk that Court TV may try to cover the trial, something Harry and I may have to weigh in on. I am not an advocate of mass media in the courtroom. In the age of celebritocr
acy there is nothing more insidious than an ambitious juror or two asserting their dominance on a panel and steering deliberations in order to secure a seat on Nightline. Those who believe it doesn’t happen have a view of reality that borders on the innocent.
A few seconds later I hear a soft voice behind me: “Mr. Madriani.”
I turn.
“Would you follow me, please?”
She is a pretty redhead, fair complexion, dressed in a rust-colored skirt and white blouse, a light silk scarf looped over her shoulders and tied in a loose knot in front.
She smiles as we walk but doesn’t say a word, not even a comment on the weather or to inquire if I had difficulty finding the place. Staring straight ahead, she has an inscrutable expression, like an Irish Mona Lisa.
Halfway down the corridor we stop in front of a bank of elevators and head up. The ride, not far but slow, passes in silence sufficiently taut that if you touched it with a knife, it would snap. As soon as the doors open on the second floor, it is clear that we have entered executive row. Here the hum of voices and the clattery clicking of keyboards is swallowed whole by the thick Berber that carpets the floor.
The space is huge, taking up what I assume is the entire west wing of the building. In the center are insulated partitions offering a modicum of privacy for secretaries and assistants, each in their own cubicled world, surrounded by a plant or two and pictures, small snapshots of loved ones and friends. A few heads look up as we pass down the hall that is formed by the partitions on one side and a solid wall punctuated by office doors with names on brass plates on the other.
I follow her to the end, where we arrive at a set of double doors, polished mahogany with brass fittings. She taps lightly.
“Come in.” It’s a male voice from the other side, almost imperceptible.
As she opens the door I realize I am being ushered into a conference room, mirrored walls and a table, twenty feet of shimmering dark mahogany surrounded by burgundy leather high-back swivel armchairs. All of this is centered under a brass chandelier large enough to accommodate an entire village of monkeys.
I had been led to expect a private meeting with Victor Havlitz, vice president and chief counsel for Isotenics and for the moment Madelyn Chapman’s replacement and standin as CEO. Instead it looks like a gathering of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. There are five people gathered around the table, six by the time the woman who has led me here takes her seat. The man at the head of the table is standing, tall and dapper, decked out in a blue pinstriped power suit.
“Mr. Madriani, welcome, I’m Victor Havlitz.” Spider to the fly. The folded French cuffs of his white linen dress shirt peek out beneath the sleeves of his jacket as if they were measured on him where he now stands using a ruler for uniformity. He toys with one of the gold cuff links at his wrist as he smiles at me. His burgundy club tie appears as if it might have been pressed on his body with sizzling steam and color-coordinated to match the leather of the chairs.
“How do you do?” There is nothing I can do but smile back, sandbagged as I am by a group gathering.
He can tell from my expression that I did not expect a crowd. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I asked a few of my colleagues to join us. They may be in a better position to answer some of your questions.” It seems the price of talking to Havlitz is an audience.
“The more the merrier,” I tell him.
“Please, come in,” he says, about to start the introductions, then stops. He apologizes, then offers me coffee, tea, or a soft drink. I pass.
“If you need anything just ask,” he says, then begins: “I’d like you to meet Mary Collard.” He indicates a blond woman in her mid-thirties on the far side of the table, at the end. She bares an obligatory half-smile. “Ms. Collard is the corporation’s chief financial officer. Next to her is Jim Beckworth. Jim assists me in legal and oversees most of our dealings with outside hired counsel. Next to Jim is Wayne Sims. Mr. Sims is with the law firm of Hays, Kinsky, Norton and Cline. I asked Mr. Sims to join us here today since no one in our legal department has much experience in criminal law and I thought it best, under the circumstances, to have someone with some knowledge assisting us.”
“I didn’t expect it to become adversarial,” I tell him.
“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be,” says Havlitz.
I don’t know Sims, but I know the firm: three hundred plus lawyers with offices in five states. They are part of the silk-sock set specializing in business law and white-collar crime.
Havlitz works his way around to my side of the table. “Over here on this side you’ve already met Ms. Rogan.”
My escort on the elevator. “Actually we haven’t been formally introduced,” I tell him.
“Allow me,” says Havlitz. “Karen Rogan. Ms. Rogan was Ms. Chapman’s executive assistant and personal secretary.”
This conjures an immediate image of Ruiz half-naked on his back on Chapman’s couch. She turns to look at me, a fleeting smile, a few light freckles clustered on the slope of her cheek around her nose, Bambi in the headlights.
In her early thirties, her amber hair is thick, medium length, and worn in the kind of natural wind-tossed style that looks as if she’s just stepped off a stormy beach on the Irish Sea. She nods in a kind of awkward gesture and immediately turns back, her eyes downcast toward the table.
If this is the woman Ruiz talked about, the intruder, it is difficult to imagine her not turning several shades of scarlet, given her fair skin and obvious discomfort in the presence of the defendant’s lawyer.
“Last but not least is Harold Klepp. Harold is the … acting director of research and development.” For Havlitz, all the emphasis is on the word acting, an inflection that is not lost on Klepp if I am any judge of facial expressions. He turns quickly to greet me, a smile and a nod. Klepp is African-American, the only person of color at the table.
Trying to put faces to names, plugging them into my own mental organizational chart of the company, I see that Klepp has the dubious honor of stepping into the shoes of Walt Eagan, his trusted predecessor and Chapman’s man Friday. No matter what he says or does, he is not likely to measure up.
“Harold is part of our technical staff. A programmer and design engineer by training.
“Please have a seat,” Havlitz says, gesturing toward the only empty chair at the table. This has been carefully positioned between himself and Karen Rogan, Chapman’s redheaded assistant. It is directly across from the lawyer Sims so that if my questions become too pointed, Havlitz’s lawyer can sink his fangs into me without having to coil before striking.
“If I’d known, I would have brought my office staff,” I tell him.
Havlitz laughs. “Yes, I suppose we could use name tags. But you can relax, we won’t test you,” he says.
I sidle in behind the redhead, bumping her chair with my briefcase in the move.
She turns a pained smile my way. We exchange “Excuse me’s” and she tries to wheel her chair a little closer to the table to make room.
The position offers everything but the naked beam of a spotlight directed into my eyes. Though Sims, the lawyer from Hays, Kinsky, does a fair simulation of this with a probing stare from across the table. He has yet to break a smile.
“Mr. Madriani … I am pronouncing your name correctly?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Mr. Madriani called a few days ago and requested a meeting. As I’m sure you all know, he represents Mr. Ruiz, who some of you knew—”
In some cases more intimately than others. I glance at Rogan next to me.
“—and who unfortunately has been arrested in Madelyn Chapman’s death.” Havlitz makes her passing sound like an accident.
“I hope we can answer some of your questions. We’ll help in any way we can,” He looks at me and takes his seat.
“Well, thank you. That’s a generous offer. If I’d known you were going to be that helpful, I would have brought confessions for everyone to sign.” There is nothing
but silence and stark expressions from around the table.
“Sorry, a bit of tasteless humor,” I tell them.
There’s a twitter of nervous laughter. Everybody smiles except Sims, the man hired to keep the dome from sliding off the building. At this point, given the publicity that is erupting, I imagine that the goal of Isotonics is to have all the issues surrounding Madelyn Chapman’s murder go away as quickly and quietly as possible. That way the company can get back to making money from the government.
It is the only reason Havlitz agreed to a meeting. His board of directors would prefer that I ask any embarrassing questions here than in court.
“I take it that with Ms. Chapman’s passing you’ve been promoted to CEO of the corporation.” I look at Havlitz.
The proximity of this remark to my bad joke is not lost on him. Who stood to gain? Looking around the table, seeing no one else senior to himself, he says, “Unfortunately, I guess I have.”
“You make it sound like bad news.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“The board of directors has taken no formal action to appoint a permanent successor.”
“But they did pass a resolution asking that you take over temporarily. I think I saw that in the newspaper.”
He nods grudgingly. “That’s correct.”
We talk about the history of the corporation, Chapman’s early days with the Pentagon, the fact that the company is heavily involved in defense work. Then I pop the question.
“Can you tell me what programs Ms. Chapman was most involved in at the time of her death?”
“She was involved in almost everything,” says Havlitz.
“I understand she was the CEO, that she oversaw everything, but I have to assume that she would have delegated most of these responsibilities to others. Did she retain anything for herself?”
Double Tap Page 9