by Randy Singer
As Jamie watched the judge’s eyes begin to glaze over, she immediately appreciated the genius of Wellington’s next question. “What does any of that have to do with this case?” she asked.
“If Mr. Hoffman possessed an algorithm valuable enough that the mob would kill for it, I can only assume it was a formula for rapidly factoring numbers into their prime components. Such a formula, if it existed, could serve as a key to unlock most asymmetric encryption codes on the Internet. The owner would be able to steal bank accounts, access proprietary documents, and tap into financial institutions. The existence of such an algorithm would fit the description that Mr. Parcelli gave in his testimony—it could threaten national security and shut down the Internet.”
Suddenly a lot more hung in the balance than the safety of two government witnesses. Jamie turned to the final question.
“If somebody had possession of such an algorithm, why would they try to sell it to the Chinese mafia? Wouldn’t legitimate Internet security companies pay millions, even billions, for such a formula?”
Carzak was on his feet. “Objection, Judge.” For once, his ever-present smile was gone—Mr. Rogers on a bad day in the neighborhood. “That calls for pure speculation.”
“I agree,” Torriano ruled. “Save that one for your closing argument.”
Jamie nodded. It occurred to her that Wellington probably knew the question was objectionable when he wrote it. Most likely, he had intended it as a road map for Jamie’s closing. She made a mental note.
53
Carzak stood at his counsel table, not even bothering to approach the podium. “Do you work at the legal aid clinic at Southeastern?” he asked.
Wellington looked dumbfounded by the question. “No, sir.”
“But you are aware that the legal aid clinic has certain guidelines in terms of accepting clients, is that right?”
Jamie couldn’t figure out where Carzak was going. But her training from trial advocacy kicked in. When in doubt . . . “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”
“If Your Honor allows me a little leeway, I’ll link it up in my closing argument,” Carzak promised.
“Proceed.”
Carzak nodded his thanks to the judge and turned back to Wellington. “Mr. Farnsworth, is it your understanding that a person’s income must be at or below the poverty level to qualify as a client for the legal aid clinic?”
“I think that’s correct.”
“And they have to fill out forms stating their income. Right?”
Jamie objected again, but Torriano overruled her again.
“Yes,” Wellington said.
“And Mr. Hoffman originally came to be represented by this team of lawyers—” Carzak arched his hand toward the opposing counsel’s table—“because he was a client of the Southeastern legal aid clinic, is that right?”
“That’s my understanding,” Wellington said.
Carzak grinned and took his seat. “That’s all I have,” he said.
A perplexed Wellington Farnsworth stepped down from the stand.
“What was that all about?” Jamie asked Isaiah.
Jamie gave her closing argument first. She thought she would be nervous, the judge staring at her with the sole power to protect the Hoffmans or allow the government to abandon them. But once Jamie got started, the competitive instincts chased away the nerves. A belief in the justice of her cause brought out the passion.
She told the story of David and Stacie Hoffman like the proud parent of an honor roll student. They didn’t fit the profile for government witnesses. These were not former mobsters who had turned on their partners in crime, but decent people trying to earn a living, their lives forever changed by mafia intrusion. Jamie explained what Stacie had shared with Isaiah over the weekend, elaborating on the facts Wellington had put in the affidavits—the kidnapping of Stacie and the heroic rescue by David. Jamie described the nightmare they had lived ever since—leaving family members and friends, risking their lives to testify against the Manchurian Triad, moving across the country to start over. It was, she said, an American tragedy with no happy ending.
And now, rubbing salt in their wounds, somebody had revealed their location to the Manchurian Triad and set them up by sending a computer-generated letter to Johnny Chin. Did a leak from the marshals’ office cause this tragic turn of events? Or did somebody from the mob find the Hoffmans independently and then use Johnny Chin to make it look like the Hoffmans had caused this problem themselves? Jamie admitted that she didn’t know the answer to that question. But there was one thing she did know: David and Stacie Hoffman did not write that letter to Johnny Chin or otherwise reveal their location to the mob.
If the Hoffmans possessed this valuable algorithm, why would they wait four years and then try to sell it to the mob? They could get millions, maybe even a billion, selling it to a legitimate company that wouldn’t try to kill them for it. Did the government’s case make any sense at all?
No, Jamie concluded, surprised at the strength of her own emotions. The Hoffmans had risked their lives to serve the Department of Justice. And now, after using the Hoffmans as witnesses and after asking every court who heard their testimony to believe in the Hoffmans, the government wanted to abandon them, throw them away, and have this court believe the word of a hired mafia killer.
Not in my country, Jamie said. That’s not my government.
She took her seat, scowling at the injustice of it all.
“Wow,” Isaiah whispered. “You blew them away. This one’s in the bag.”
“I agree,” Snead whispered cautiously, “unless the government can pull a rabbit out of its hat.”
But Allan Carzak did not look like a beaten man as he took his place behind the podium.
“It all makes sense now,” Carzak claimed, talking to the judge like he would an old college friend. “I’m sitting there listening to Mr. Farnsworth’s testimony—” Carzak turned and motioned toward Wellington—“who, by the way, is very smart. You ought to consider a career in the Department of Justice when you get out of school, young man.”
Wellington blushed, and Jamie felt like she was watching a time-share salesman.
“I’m thinking: the kid’s got a point. And Ms. Brock argued it so eloquently in her closing. Why would Hoffman go to a mob hit man if he had this incredibly valuable algorithm that could bring a billion dollars from legitimate businessmen? Why would he wait four years? And why wouldn’t he turn over a copy of that algorithm to the government now if he really wanted protection?”
Carzak held his hand in the air, hesitating, looking to Jamie like the magician he was—everything in place but the white handkerchief. “That’s when it hit me. Hoffman doesn’t have the algorithm! It’s been obvious, right there in plain sight the whole time. He fell on hard times four years after he testified. You heard it yourself from Mr. Farnsworth. I mean, the man was so poor, he qualified for legal aid! So he says to himself, ‘I played with fire once before and didn’t get burned. Maybe I can do it again.’”
Carzak was talking with both hands now, selling his own theory so passionately that he almost had Jamie believing him. “He calls on his one sure contact with the Manchurian Triad—Johnny Chin—intending to scam the mob out of millions for an algorithm that he doesn’t even have. That’s why he contacted the mob. He intended to scam the mob out of a couple of million and then get the government to provide him with a new identity.
“The only problem with that strategy, Judge, is that Johnny Chin didn’t go to the mob and act as a middleman. He came to us! And now, by contacting a former mafia connection, Mr. Hoffman has violated the terms of his memorandum of understanding. You don’t have to take my word for that. You don’t even have to rely just on the word of Mr. Chin, because Ms. Brock is right about him as well—he’s a witness with a very checkered past. But in this case, his testimony is corroborated by the most powerful corroborating evidence of all—the testimony of our own common sense. Only one answer explains why Hoffman
still refuses to give the algorithm to the federal government, even in exchange for a new identity—he doesn’t have it!”
Carzak smiled, shaking his head. “And to think I almost missed it. Right there under our noses, Judge, all along. Hoffman gambled away his government protection, a contractual right—his birthright, so to speak, for a bowl of stew. It was a million-dollar gamble, but it was a gamble Mr. Hoffman lost. And unfortunately for him, this court is required to leave him with the consequences of that gamble.”
Carzak returned to his seat, still acting a little dumbfounded that he hadn’t seen it all along. “I almost missed it,” he mumbled again.
“Brilliant,” Professor Snead groaned, just loud enough for Jamie and Isaiah to hear.
Isaiah leaned back in his seat as if he wasn’t impressed. But out of the side of his mouth, he whispered his admiration to Jamie, “Of all the lawyers in the world . . . on my first big case, I draw David Copperfield.”
“Carzak the Magnificent,” Jamie sneered. And she knew that she had finally proposed a nickname that just might stick.
54
At 2:00 p.m., the Southeastern Nightmare Team, as Isaiah had started calling their disparate group, gathered in Snead’s small office at the law school. Judge Torriano had ended that morning’s hearing by saying that she needed a few hours to research some issues before she ruled. She said she would have her clerk set up a conference call at two and the court would announce her ruling.
Jamie was not optimistic. Though she still held out a slight glimmer of hope, she knew that Carzak’s argument had swayed the judge. To be honest, it had swayed Jamie, and she was opposing counsel. Carzak’s theory was the only scenario that really made sense.
The three students all ignored the uncomfortable chairs, preferring to stand as they waited for the phone call. There wasn’t much banter as they nervously watched the clock and Snead immersed himself in some papers on his desk. His only comment didn’t do much to lift Jamie’s spirits. “If she begins by telling us what a great job you all did—we’re toast. Judges always compliment the losing side just before hammering them.”
When the phone call came, though they were expecting it, Jamie and Wellington jumped. Snead answered the call in his typical gruff tone, placing the clerk on the speakerphone.
The clerk took roll and then put Judge Torriano on the line. “I want to begin,” she said, “by telling all three students at Southeastern what a marvelous job they did on this case.” Isaiah murmured a curse as Torriano continued. “If all the lawyers who entered my court were as prepared and eloquent as you three, it would be a pleasure to be a judge. Professor Snead, you should be very proud of them.”
Torriano paused, but Snead didn’t say a word.
“But after considering all the evidence and the arguments of counsel, the court feels compelled to rule in favor of the government and deny the motion for a preliminary injunction . . .”
The rest of the court’s comments barely registered with Jamie. It was like the ruling ignited an explosion of pent-up emotions that Jamie didn’t even know she had stored. Like a grand finale, all the events of the past several days fired their emotional impulses at once—her abduction, the danger to Snowball, buying a gun, her first major case, the disappointment of losing—paralyzing her mind with emotive intensity. Though she hadn’t really expected to win, the reality of losing still hit hard. She heard Judge Torriano say something about a scheduling order for the case. She digested the looks of disappointment on the faces of her associates. But when the call ended, Jamie was just beginning to come out of the post-fireworks fog.
“Wellington, you work on the appeal,” Snead said. “Isaiah, I’m assuming that you’re going to contact the clients?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call some longtime friends at DOJ and see if I can work some political angles,” Snead concluded.
Jamie was the only one without a post-ruling assignment, accentuating her feeling of helplessness and defeat.
On her way to the car, she tried to look at the bright side, to give herself a little pep talk. They really had tried a good case. She had survived her first major hearing in federal court and confirmed that she was actually pretty decent at this courtroom stuff. She just wasn’t cut out to be a good loser.
But that was okay. She was going to be a prosecutor. She would only file cases she believed in, cases where the evidence was strong. There was a reason that most prosecutors won 90 percent of their cases.
She wasn’t feeling totally better as she approached her car, but she wasn’t suicidal either. It had been a long weekend with virtually no sleep followed by an even longer Monday. She would take off a few hours early and drive north to her brother’s house.
She missed Snowball terribly. One of the greatest things about dogs was the way they treated you like a rock star every time you entered the room. It didn’t matter if you’d won the lottery, gotten yourself fired, or swindled some defenseless widow. To your dog, you walked on water without getting your ankles wet.
The minute Jamie would set foot in her condo, Snowball would come flying—tail wagging, feet skidding. Jamie! Jamie! My hero! Right now, Jamie could use a little hero worship.
Instead, she was confronted with a note, folded in half and left underneath the driver’s side windshield wiper on her 4Runner. It was a cut-and-paste job, each letter in a different font and from a different magazine.
It read: You really should have called.
55
Jamie called her brother immediately. “How’s Snowball?” she asked, barely breathing.
“He’s been great,” Chris said. There was a pause. “Well, he’s been a little ornery. Okay, so maybe you owe us for two pairs of sandals he chewed on and a flower vase he knocked over with his tail. But the girls love him. They’ve been begging to get our own dog all week.”
Jamie didn’t know what to say. She was so relieved that Snowball was okay it caught her off guard. Speechless.
“Jamie?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I got distracted. So, I mean, Snowball’s okay physically? He hasn’t been sick or anything?”
“As far as I can tell, he’s doing great,” Chris said. “A little diarrhea when you first left, but otherwise, he’s adjusted fine. He sleeps in our bedroom, by the way.”
Jamie’s heart took a sudden plunge when she heard some background noise—the sound of a car radio. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m in the carpool lane at school—picking up the girls.”
Jamie tried not to panic, but she couldn’t ignore the siren in her head. “Is Amanda home with Snowball?”
“No, she had some errands to run. Is that a problem?”
“Listen, Chris, this might sound crazy. But can you get your neighbors to check on him right away? Maybe even take Snowball into their house until you guys get home? I’ll explain when I arrive tonight.”
“Um, sure. I’ll try.” Jamie heard the familiar concern in her brother’s voice. Other law students had mothers. Jamie had Chris. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
When Chris called back forty-five minutes later, Jamie could tell right away from his tone that something was wrong. “Snowball’s not looking good,” he said. “I’m taking him to the vet.”
Jamie was already on I-85 but had not even made it to the city’s perimeter. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and now she felt an increased urgency . . . and nausea. “What do you mean, ‘not looking good’?”
“He’s sick, Jamie. Food poisoning or something.”
The air left her lungs. This couldn’t be happening. “Get him to the vet right away, Chris. Please hurry.”
The next two calls were both made by Jamie. She had Chris describe Snowball’s symptoms in detail. Drooling, vomiting, convulsions. Eventually Snowball grew lethargic, but he somehow made it to the vet. The dog had a stubborn streak and an iron will; Jamie knew that much. He might need every ounce of it to
survive.
On the next call, Jamie spoke directly with the vet. He had pumped Snowball’s stomach right away but hadn’t noticed much improvement. He was an old country doc who had seen every kind of dog poison case imaginable—mushrooms, toads, paint thinner, rat poison. It was amazing what dogs could survive.
But Snowball had this guy worried. The dog’s breathing was short and shallow. His heart rate, frighteningly fast. Honestly, the doc didn’t know if Snowball was going to pull through or not. Traffic had thinned out a little, and Jamie was weaving in and out, tailgating when necessary. She knew if she could just see Snowball again, somehow he would find the strength to live.
“Do whatever it takes to save him,” Jamie ordered. “I’ll worry about the costs later.” She laid on the horn and bullied some cars into making room. She was still two and a half hours away.
“We’re already doing everything we can,” the vet said. “I’ve got two golden Labs of my own.”
The next phone call was made by Chris.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” he said softly. “We lost him.”
56
They stood in the backyard by a big hole that Chris had dug by hand. It was a shaded patch of earth next to a large Georgia pine, a grave befitting the most majestic of dogs. Chris had laid Snowball carefully in the hole, flat on his side, his legs fully extended—the way Snowball often slept at night, utterly exhausted from another day of rambunctious adventure. They held hands—Jamie, Chris, Amanda, and the two girls, Lola, age six, and Sophie, age four.
Jamie had cried for Snowball for more than an hour on the way to Chris’s house. Sobbed for him, really. Sobbed for herself. At the very least, she wished with all her heart she could have seen him one last time.
When she arrived at the house, she put on a stoic front for the little girls, even forced a smile, though surely her red and puffy eyes gave her away. She pulled Chris aside in the kitchen and told him everything. Chris had already talked to a Rabun County deputy sheriff, who had been dispatched after Jamie called Drew Jacobsen. Chris resisted the opportunity to lecture his kid sister about honesty or about putting his own family at risk or any number of things. Instead, he just gave her a hug and assured her it would be okay.